I know the chance is slim, but if I don’t hold on to this one shred of hope, I might as well give up right now. We have to be able to change our fate.

We say good-bye to Dr. Walters. There’s so much more I want to ask him—like if he knows why I killed the others or if he thinks Aether murdered us—but there’s no time. We rush back to the lobby, and as the automatic doors slide open, I see it’s pitch-black outside and raining again. Of course. If I was smart, I would have grabbed an umbrella at Future-Adam’s house, but it never rains this much in LA.

As we step into the downpour, a police car pulls up to the curb, lights flashing. A voice booms, “Freeze! ”

12:27

12:27

For a heartbeat all I can do is stare at the car, but then my reflexes kick in and I start running. We took too long with Dr. Walters. I should have been checking my watch more and not asked so many questions. I should have made sure we got out sooner.

The car isn’t far, parked in a lot next to the retirement home. But the police are already on foot, chasing after us. “Freeze!” they yell again.

We make it around the building, but then I hear Trent cry out behind me. I’m tempted to keep running, to leave him behind, but I turn around. One of the cops has hit him with a baton and brought him to his knees. While the second cop approaches, the first one smashes Trent with the baton again. He flattens against the wet cement, eyes bulging. He’s frozen stiff, unable to move. The baton must be electrified or something.

Cop number two pulls out a thin pair of handcuffs. Which means we’ve lost Trent—maybe forever if he can’t get back to the aperture in time. Unless we do something.

“Go!” I yell at the others. I leap on the first cop, surprising him, and rip the baton from his hand. I slam it into his helmet as hard as I can and shove him against the wall. He bounces off and then hits the ground, his armor smacking against the sidewalk.

He won’t be down for more than an instant, and the second cop is already reaching for his gun. They’re wearing full body armor, so I’m not sure where to hit them. I know this is probably a losing battle anyway. But it feels good to fight. It reminds me I’m still alive. I grip the baton tighter in my hand.

From the ground, Trent kicks at the second cop’s leg, distracting him. I spring forward, bringing the baton down on a spot between the cop’s shoulder and his arm, where the armor looks weaker, probably to allow for movement. He instantly jerks and falls to the ground.